You Believers (46 page)

He turned, kicked Mike’s chair. “I told you, I’m just getting started. You tell me what it was like to be Mike Carter the day you left that girl to rot in the ground.”

Mike looked at his hands, the skin around the nails all cracked and dry, his nails filthy, and his wrists scraped from where they liked to yank the cuffs too tight. He knew he’d never be free of Jesse, knew it just the way he felt Katy Connor right there beside him at times. There would always be Jesse, laughing, sneering, punching at him any way a spirit could. Jesse would be saying,
I might be gone from this world of yours, but I’m here, you little snitch, you ain’t ever gonna get loose of me
. And there would always be that lady, tears in her eyes, saying something about how it felt like a dream. He wished it was a dream. He wished he could forget her touch on his arm, but the memory wasn’t in his mind, it was there in his skin. He could cut the arm off and he’d still feel her always. Mike put his head down
on the table. He wanted his granny. He wanted anybody to say any kind word. He hadn’t heard a gentle word from anybody since that day he’d seen his granny wailing, making that screaming sound only some dying thing can make while she crumpled, fell to the floor.

The detective punched his arm. “Told you, I’m just getting started here.” It might as well have been Jesse sitting there beside him, and it would be just the way it was with Jesse. He’d have to give the man whatever he wanted; he’d have to say the words he wanted, the words that would keep Mike sitting there, reliving it, telling every little thing he’d seen that day. He lifted his head, kept his eyes on his hands. “It all started when he spotted the lady in the blue truck. Her name was Katy. We saw Katy Connor walk into the Dollar Daze, and we waited.” He took a breath. This would take a long time. He knew he’d have to tell the story again and again. It would never be over. There would always be more Jesse Hollowfields in the world. Mike knew he’d have to take it. There was no getting out of this mean little world and into the great big world where things could be different. There was no getting out of the mean little world that had no ending, the world he and Jesse had made that day.

At Least There Are Some Mercies

Her head was here, her body there is what I would come to say when the coroner, the sheriff, when all others came to claim the remains. Her head was here, her body there, I would say, declaring a truth based on the scattering of bones, mud-caked jeans, a tuft of long, dark hair. Katy. I would like to say she passed from this world as naturally, as easily as the green slips from an oak leaf in autumn. Yes, there is a season for all things, but not this. I’d like to say she melted, as her mother came to say, melted the way snow steams in the heat of sun, sinks to the earth beneath. But
broken, scattered, left to rot
are the words I thought at the sight of her, the words that still bang around in my head, but I couldn’t say them, not to a mother, not to a lover, not to any of those who’d known Katy, whose smile could make anyone’s day an easier thing.

I knew I’d find her beyond that thicket of trees. Mike Carter had mentioned the field of blown-down trees, the circle road, the little brick house, the thicket. He’d called it a circle road, but Roy, he’d heard of a figure-eight road out there. So I had a good idea what I was looking for. I stood looking at the scattered remains of Katy Connor, and all I could think was
I’ll have to tell her mother
, but only after
the coroner, the sheriff, and all the rest came to bag the remains, sift the dirt, and mark the crime scene. It wasn’t Roy’s county where I found her, so it was another sheriff I called.

When I set out that morning, I knew I’d find her, so I didn’t tell Livy my plans, didn’t tell Roy, didn’t even tell the REV crew where I was going, just told them I was taking a drive. Some things I like to keep to myself. There’s too many false leads that lift and break a mother’s heart when you’re searching, like that dog we found. I didn’t want this to be another dead-dog kind of lead. Sometimes it’s best to keep a hunch in your heart. The hunch gathers energy, doesn’t dissipate into the hopes and fears of whoever you might be telling. Sharing a hunch sometimes is like digging up the seed to see if it’s sprouting. Keep digging at things, they’ll never grow. Sometimes you just got to sit back, keep your notions to yourself, and approach the thing you want with great caution and respect that all things appear in their own time. Not yours.

I knew she was out there somewhere between the highways and the old farm road. Mike Carter had told us that much, but there were miles and miles of rough country. And the dog teams had gone down enough trails for Katy; they had been shipped out to search for a kid who was missing up near Raleigh. When we’ve run through the dog teams and the search crews, sometimes the searching just comes down to me. So it was just me that day. I’d circled and crisscrossed that farmland with all the loose clues that stupid kid, who was riddled with too much fear, could give. But when you’re on a search, you’ll take most what anyone can give. When I woke that morning, it was like something called me up from sleep said,
Go
. When I get that calling to go or stay somewhere, I always listen, do just what that little voice inside says. When I got in my truck, my travel mug of coffee steaming, I knew where I was going, that field of blown-down trees and the figure-eight dirt road. All the clues just
clicked into place. She was there. I just hadn’t seen the path they’d led her down. I’d missed it somehow, but she was there.

There wasn’t much traffic in the dawn light of a Sunday morning. So it was a smooth ride through town and up over the Cape Fear River bridge. Hardly anyone at all on the other side of that river, and then no one out there, just me and the road and the few birds riding the air and flat farmland stretching east and west. Such a beautiful world for such horrors to grow. I remembered Darly. I don’t often think of Darly, but I could feel Darly that morning, so I knew I was close. I took my exit just south of Whitwell, went back to that two-lane highway, past the field of blown-down trees and on to take the right down the dirt road that led to the figure-eight road, and I drove it, looping around and around, watching for some kind of sign of something I’d missed. It’s not like there are a lot of figure-eight roads in the Carolina farmlands, so this had to be it. I knew. So I drove three times looping around, seeing nothing but fields and distant thickets of trees until I was dumped back out on the main dirt road again. In the brightening light, I studied the map, which was pretty useless when it came to charting farm roads, roads just cleared by the farmers making easier routes to the back sides of their fields. Maps can be useless in counties where any man with a tractor can make a road. We’d studied satellite views of the whole county, had narrowed the search down to three farms.

I turned back to the figure-eight road, saw no brick house, no heaps of trash. I stopped, thought maybe Mike Carter was lying. Then I thought he’d been too scared to lie, a little guy with a baby face, his hands shaking, he was so scared. Even with Jesse Hollow-field dead and a reduced sentence on the table, Mike Carter still shook. His voice quivered when he spoke. I could see him, how he must have been that day, driving the little rusted-out Datsun over the rutted roads while Jesse and Katy followed behind. He couldn’t have
seen much from where he sat low in the seat in that car that had to be scraping ruts in the road with every turn.

Then I remembered that his granny lived around here. He’d probably walked these roads, crossed this farmland countless times to and from his granny’s house before he was old enough to drive or when that beater of a car was broken down.
He walked these roads
, I thought, the words springing up in my head like some big discovery. So I drove back onto the figure-eight road, pulled the truck to the side, grabbed my walking stick, got out, and walked. Walking, you can see lots of things easy to miss from high up in that seat of a Durango. I walked the loop toward the heart of that figure eight, where the roads cross and either way leads you back to the same place, the heart of the eight, nowhere. While walking, I saw the cornflowers blooming by the side of the road. Queen Anne’s lace. Purple thistle. A butterfly hung on the thistle, moved slowly as if drying its wings from the morning dew.
Katy
, I thought. Livy had told me Katy loved butterflies, any natural thing that had a lure of magic to it.
Butterflies
, I thought, watching its wings moving stronger now. I stood still, the way I knew Katy would want.

Then, in a blink, the butterfly was off, darted beyond my seeing into the trees, and then I saw it: the path. To the right was a little path mostly covered in leaves. I used my stick to push the leaves back, then saw a parallel path. This was no path; it was a farm road, just as Mike had said, a little tractor trail off the figure-eight road. No one had come here since the old farmer had died. Kids maybe, kids like Mike Carter looking for a place to get laid, get high, get any of those many things boys want when they’re out of sight. Cops never bothered to drive down this road. There was nothing out here but a fallow farm and thickets of trees where anything could happen, unheard, unseen.

Using my stick, I pushed on down that rutted trail until I saw a clearing ahead. I stood still, looked back to where the ground was
level before it dropped to this rutted path that led to the clearing. They would have parked there, I thought, behind that thicket of trees. And the clearing. They would have made her walk to the clearing. From here. I looked down at my boots in the dirt. She stood here, walked there. They wouldn’t have wanted to risk driving the car or the truck down this rutted road. He made her walk to him there in the clearing. Her last road, I thought as I headed down the path to the clearing where she must have seen him waiting, knowing it was the end and she had no choice but to walk.

I swallowed against the crying that was aching in my throat. I thought,
Don’t cry, don’t cry
, the way I used to comfort Darly when some boy had broken her heart. Yes, even pretty girls get broken hearts.
Don’t cry
, I told myself, and I wiped at the tears running down my face, knowing this was the end. Again.

I walked down the rutted road, feeling the old sadness seep up, thinking,
How will I tell this story; how can I tell it and try to keep the hurt back; how will I tell the hurt
? And I asked myself again, the way I always do when I find remains,
Why do I choose to walk these sorrowful trails
? I could have been so many other things. I stood still, taking that in, thinking,
This is my calling, and no one can walk away from that
. You might try, but the calling keeps calling until you go back again and do what you must do. So I stood there, looked up from the ground to the treetops, and I breathed the sweet morning smell in the air. A blue jay squawked and moved higher in a tree, and I watched as another jay swooped. Then I saw, beyond the thicket of trees, the little brick house. I was exactly where I needed to be.

I looked down, searched the ground for a sign of something, but there was only dirt and tufts of grass and weeds. I looked around for a sign of the trash heap, but it wouldn’t be obvious. I knew it wouldn’t be far from the clearing. He couldn’t have dragged her very far if he
was in a hurry to leave. Up to my left I saw a patch of undergrowth tucked between two locust trees.
There
, I thought,
she’ll be there
.

I moved forward, studying the ground with each step, saw only rocks, leaves, some scattered wildflowers, clumps of thistle growing tall. No doubt the jay was after the thistle seeds. Then I saw the rusted can, a blackened bottle, old jars, and rusted lids. It was an old fire pit. In the country people used to burn their trash. I crouched down, steadied myself with my stick. I pressed my lips tight, shut my eyes, not wanting to see what I’d come for. I breathed, knowing when I opened my eyes again I would have to focus, to scan the ground for what didn’t belong in an old farmer’s fire pit. I opened my eyes, and saw the mud-caked jeans as if someone had just placed them there while my eyes were closed. Just a couple of feet away, the mud-caked jeans mostly buried under fallen leaves.

I stood to move toward them, eyes tearing, the old sickness in my gut. And there at my foot, right there where I could have stepped, her jawbone, a row of browned teeth. I dropped to my knees, knelt in the dirt, all the ugliness swimming up in my head. I breathed, used my stick to gently stir at the leaves to expose the brow, the empty holes where the eyes would have been, a tuft of dark hair matted with leaves. I closed my eyes, praying no and knowing yes. Just inches from my knee was Katy Connor, what remained of the girl who’d smiled to someone’s camera, whose image at the moment was fluttering on a phone pole, faded on the bulletin boards of bars, libraries, and Laundromats. I studied the teeth, still perfect except for the browning from dirt and weather. She had had a movie-star smile and had come to this, browned, dirty teeth in the leaves. Nothing wanted the bones and teeth of a dead girl but me, her mother, anyone who loved her. And the courts would want the proof. And the TV. The television crews would be all over this. What a story this would make on the news.

I breathed in and out slowly, fought to keep the sickness down, thought of how one day long ago, two hunters had found Darly just like this—well, not just like this. I used my stick to push the leaves farther back from the bone, slipped some gloves on. The cops would complain, threaten me for tampering with a crime scene, but I’d leave them their scene. I just needed to push the leaves back to see what I knew I would see, a skull and perfect teeth, a tuft of hair, the rest taken by birds and worse. I looked up to the bare trees, a gray sky. I looked back to the ground. Her head was here. And there, just a few feet away, the jeans. I carefully took the two steps toward them. And her body was here. I used my stick to push the leaves back, saw the hip bones, spine, ribs, a red striped shirt. At least he hadn’t raped her. When they found Darly, they never found her clothes.